There are scandals that expose corruption, and there are scandals that expose temperament. The Chomsky–Epstein affair belongs in the second category. The fact that Jeffrey Epstein cultivated famous acquaintances is not surprising. That was his method. His talent lay in quietly and persistently attaching himself to prestige until the association began to look natural. What unsettled people was not the contact. It was the indifference.

When he was asked to explain these meetings by the Wall Street Journal in April 2023, Chomsky replied with a characteristically blunt email: “First response is that it’s none of your business. Or anyone’s. Second is that I knew him and we met occasionally.” He seemed to believe that meeting controversial individuals is not unusual. Pressed to explain why he had attended a dinner with Epstein and Woody Allen, Chomsky replied: “I’m unaware of the principle that requires that I inform you about an evening spent with a great artist.” Intellectual life, he implied, involves encounters with all sorts of people, and since Epstein had served his time and paid his debt to society, so what?

Most people heard arrogance, and in a way, they were right. But it was a particular kind of arrogance—the confidence of a mind trained to believe that the real danger lies not in proximity to the powerful, but in accepting the narratives built around them. Chomsky has spent a lifetime distrusting the obvious story, and that instinct has made him formidable. But it has also sometimes led him into situations where the peculiar refusal to accept appearances becomes its own kind of blindness.

A Taste for Revisionism

Chomsky’s defenders routinely praise his consistency. They say that he applies the same sceptical lens at all times and to all things. But consistency, pushed far enough, can become a habit rather than a principle.